


Worship at the Mother's Altar

by violentdarlings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cultural Differences, D/s undertones, Dubious Consent, Exoticism but opposite, F/M, Female Sexuality, Language Barrier, Oral Sex, POV Daenerys, Power Dynamics, Pregnant Sex, Something Made Them Do It, it's basically just porn guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Among the Dothraki, if a common man saves the life of a pregnant khaleesi, he must "accept" his "reward".Or: the one where Drogo makes Jorah fuck Dany.





	Worship at the Mother's Altar

Irri is the one to explain it to her. For all Daenerys has tried to master Dothraki, there are times when she still can only understand one word in ten. Like any language, there are dialectal differences; like any language, it is harder to understand when the words are loud, and fast, and angry.

She understands well enough when her husband promises to bring his _khalasar_ across the Narrow Sea to Westeros, that their son will wear the crown the Usurper stole from her father and from her brothers. But after, when it is just her and Drogo in the tent, his massive hand cradling her jaw gently, that she doesn’t know what he is saying.

“ _Again_?” she asks him, in the language that they share. Drogo grunts, passing his free hand over his eyes, kohl smearing against his knuckles. The following string of words are easier, but still overall unfathomable: she catches _price_ and _owed_ and a word that she’s come to believe means _cherished_ , for all that Drogo only uses it when they’re alone.

“ _Forgive me, my sun and stars,”_ she says, and Drogo grimaces, lets go of her face, stomps to the entrance of their tent. He returns, and Irri enters in a rush, her hair disarrayed, her eyes wide.

“If you’d be so kind to translate,” Daenerys begins, but Drogo is already speaking over her, gesturing at Daenerys, at her belly, and incomprehensibly out the entrance to the tent, towards the main camp. Irri listens, her head cocked, before her dark skin flushes, eyes dropping to the ground. “Well?” Daenerys asks, a little more harshly than she means; she dislikes being spoken over. “What is it?”

Irri kicks at the ground with one bare toe. She is unsettled, Daenerys perceives; she usually hides her dismay better. “It is an old custom,” she murmurs. “From the very beginning of Dothraki memory, as far back as the stories go. The Andal saved your life, saved the life of your child –”

“ _He must have you_ ,” Drogo rumbles. He is settled, now; his chest is no longer heaving, and his black eyes have lost their rage. Irri nods.

“It would be different, if you were not,” Irri passes her hands over her own belly, forming a rounded shape. “A woman cannot be seeded twice, not even a _khaleesi_. The Andal cannot put a baby in a womb that has already quickened.”

The Andal. Ser Jorah. Daenerys blinks, the information entering her mind and then becoming lodged there, as though a tremendous tree has fallen before her that she may not pass. “Ser Mormont would never agree,” is all she can think to say, in disbelieving Common. Irri shivers.

“It is terribly bad luck for the child, _khaleesi_ , to come into this world owing a debt of life,” she says, full lips pinched. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. “As your mother, it is your duty to pay it… with the act that creates a child. Life for a life.”

“ _The Andal saved you in full view of my bloodriders, moon of my life_ ,” Drogo says. He has not turned away during their conversation in the Common Tongue, as is sometimes his wont; he had stayed by Daenerys’ side, black eyebrows knitted together in concern. “ _It must be done.”_ Daenerys turns to him, her own eyebrows flying up towards her hairline.

“ _In full view of the horde, as was my rescue?”_ she asks, and her voice is shrill to her own ears. “Bedded by a man old enough to be my father?” Drogo shakes his head, his hands resting on her shoulders; Daenerys longs fiercely to shake them off.

“ _It would not be as it is when we lie together,”_ he insists. “ _Not for…_ love.” He pronounces the last word in Common. The Dothraki word for love also connotates ownership. Daenerys taught him love in the Common Tongue, early on. “Only one witness. You can…” He stops, obviously trying to work something out. “You can choose,” he says in Common, clearly. “You can no.”

But she understands the words he does not say well enough. there will be no iron chair, no crossing the poison water if she does not acquiesce. And she can imagine what Ser Jorah would say, were it any other man she was forced to bed; after his outrage on her behalf, after offering to run the man through, he would quirk a tired eyebrow and say, well, _khaleesi_ , surely it can’t be as bad as the horse’s heart?

No, it wouldn’t. Indeed it would not.

 

They bring him to her stripped of his weapons and with his hands bound. Irri had told her, very rapidly and with her accent stronger than usual, that it is only because Ser Jorah is so very respected by the _khal_ that Drogo is allowing this ceremony at all. Usually, Irri says as she combs Daenerys’ hair, Doreah hurriedly washing the sand from her feet, an outside would simply be put to death, the better for the debt to die with him.

Without Jorah’s death, or the ceremony due to start at any moment, the luck could be awful, Doreah had added. Her smile had been wry, when she’d followed it with, it may be so unlucky as to be born a girl.

The tent Daenerys is in now is far smaller than the one she shares with Drogo, and is painted inside and out with heavy, jagged markings. To scare away the bad luck demons, she presumes, and she loves the Dothraki for how they have adopted her, one not of their own blood, and yet their ways can still be odd, even childlike to her.

Jorah enters, with Irri on one side and Drogo on the other, her husband holding the leash binding Jorah’s hands together. Drogo meets her eyes, his own conflicted; she knows he dislikes greatly the notion of another man touching her. Still, it is his will – the great, collective will of the horde, that perpetuates their traditions from as far back as they can remember, and on and on until the great grass sea swallows the world.

Irri is to be the witness.

“ _I bring you the one_ ,” Drogo rumbles. Daenerys nods, just for him, to let him know that she, his wife is all right with this, as well as she, his _khaleesi_ , who must respond with the traditional words.

“ _I accept the offering made to me_ ,” she replies in the same language. The sounds of Dothraki are harsh but familiar, after all this time. Jorah is breathing hard; there is a smudge of what looks like dirt on his cheek, and his linen tunic is smeared. No doubt he fought those who tried to lead him, until Drogo took the rein; Daenerys wonders idly if words passed between them, when her husband brought her sworn shield to the sacred tent. Warnings not to hurt her, vows that he would rather die.

Yet she knows Ser Jorah looks upon her with a love that is greater than a subject for his queen. Unacknowledged, but it is there all the same; he did not look at her brother so.

Drogo cups her cheek, just for a moment. “I will be outside,” he promises, and is gone before Dany can rest her tired head into the broad curve of his palm.

They have gagged Ser Jorah, too; Daenerys pulls it from her mouth and unbinds his hands for good measure. “Forgive me, ser,” she says at once, but Ser Jorah is already shaking his head, massaging feeling back into his fingers. Irri perches discretely on the wooden stool in the corner; Daenerys abruptly tries to forget she is there. That this must occur in the first place is enough, but that it must to do so in front of a witness…

Daenerys understands the reasoning behind it, of course. The knowledge does nothing to cool her temper.

“You have no need to be sorry, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah says quietly, drawing Dany’s attention back to him. He is clad only in his plateskirt and tunic; the Dothraki have even taken his boots. His feet are very large and very pale, lighter than the sun-touched skin of his face and forearms. “I must swear to you, though, that I had no knowledge of this custom.” He takes a knee as if it is something people do every day; perhaps that is the way it is, in the country of her birth. Daenerys has only her brother’s word on the matter, and that was precious little.

His eyes are light, as though too much rain has washed the colour out of them, but they are very keen. As sharp as her own appear to be, when Daenerys has time to look at herself in silvered glass. Ser Jorah has fought in several wars, both Westerosi and in Essos; he understands military tactics and strategy and the land Daenerys intends to rule. It is as if he is a tool crafted perfectly for her hand and for her needs, and all Daenerys must do is reach out and take him.

One messy, awkward encounter seems nothing, when Daenerys compares it to the long road of rulership.

“Rise, ser, and disrobe,” Daenerys commands, and enjoys the conflict that crosses the knight’s face, trying to decide which order to follow first, perceiving the second, longing to argue with his queen, his honour fighting both to obey and refuse. “Will you not serve me then, Jorah of House Mormont?” Daenerys demands. “Will you deny your queen her will?” Almost as though against his own self, Ser Jorah’s hands are unfastening the laces that close his tunic at the throat; without further delay, Daenerys slips off her many-layered robe and relishes in the stunned expression of the knight’s face.

It’s odd, but she feels increasingly desirable like this, her belly swollen out to noticeable proportions and her breasts increased, her hips widened to help her carry the babe. Before she’d quickened, she’d been slim to the point of appearing famished; Drogo has put more than his seed into her, he has fattened her with rich meat on the bone and delicacies taken from cities in their path. A woman has emerged from Daenerys’ girlhood flesh, the kind of woman who could move mountains, or destroy cities, or simply inspire awe, on the face of a man who served her.

“The Mother made flesh,” the knight murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard. The compliment is all the sweeter to Daenerys, for the reference to her home. The goddesses of the East are tender and terrible by terms, but they are not the Seven, the gods of her home across the sea.

If she is the Mother, Ser Jorah can only be the Warrior, Daenerys decides. Not the natural consort of the Mother, no, but to be kept close, the better to call him into sudden use. His plateskirt is gone, and he tugs his tunic over his head; Daenerys tracks a pale chest covered with hair and heavily scarred, before her gaze is dragged downwards to the part of him so different from a maid.

She stares, and stares some more. “Are all Westerosi men formed so?” she inquires, and could bite her tongue for it, although all Ser Jorah does is laugh, low and pleased in his throat.

“Apologies, your Grace, but I have not inspected a large enough sample to reach an opinion,” he says, shaking his head to himself as if she’s amused him greatly. “Those I have seen did not appear to be as _generous_ mine is, but that was when they were when limp, _khaleesi_. Men do not commonly stand at attention around other men.”

Daenerys should focus more on what he’s saying, but it’s only the second cock she’s ever seen up close, and it really is warm in here. The knight kneels at her feet, having seemingly forgotten Daenerys’ order to rise. Daenerys, feeling very bold, lifts her foot and trails her toe up Ser Jorah’s leg, curling her foot as well she can around his length. The knight only sighs, and throbs the harder; it is intoxicating, having a man’s most tender flesh against her foot, knowing that even with the slightest of movements she could deal him terrible pain.

His eyes are crinkled at the corners, his forehead lined. Ser Jorah is older than Dany herself, and Drogo, and all his bloodriders; he must be a terribly good fighter, for all his hair is short and receding, thinning at the crown of his head. but his eyes are wicked, as though inviting her to laugh at their shared predicament; Daenerys jumps a little when he takes her foot in his rough palm, lifts her leg and braces her frame against his muscled shoulders.

Daenerys has no idea what he intends to do, but it soon dawns on her; his mouth is at her thigh, at the silver-dusted furrow of her slit, tongue seeking between her legs. It is quite sudden, and seems incredibly inappropriate to Daenerys, who like most women pisses from that little hole between her bud and the entrance to her womb. It seems deeply filthy, and Daenerys tries to tell the knight so, but all he does is hum – now, that is a revelation unto itself – and address his attentions to the little knot of flesh nearly hidden by the rest of her.

Daenerys lasts over three laves of his tongue over the spot before she is pushing at his shoulder. “Easy,” Ser Jorah soothes, detaching himself briefly from between her legs, his stubbled cheeks and chin shiny. “Too much, is it?” He returns to his task with enthusiasm, but laps at her a little more to the side; the near-painful intensity is mitigated down to a pleasurable sort of build. Daenerys has reached a peak before, of course, but not from activities like this.

Was everyone in Westeros this depraved?

As if on cue, Daenerys hears Irri make a tiny noise of protest. Dany tilts her head lazily towards her maid; Ser Jorah ceases his attentions with a curt, “My lady?”

The knight manages to make it sound like a curse, for all he is usually scrupulously polite to all women. Irri flinches.

“That is – not what is done, among the Dothraki,” she says haltingly in the Common Tongue. Daenerys can’t help but agree with her. “I do not think the _khal_ would approve.” Ser Jorah frowns, the lines on his face deepening.

“We love differently in Westeros,” he replies in harsh Dothraki, but continues in Common, his voice softening a little. “I am attending the _khaleesi_ as I have been ordered, but nowhere in this absurd custom have I told I had to take her Grace like an animal in rut.”

Daenerys knows she is pink-cheeked, from the heat of the fire and the smoke of the incensed candles, but all the same, heat comes into her skin. The thought of it, being taken remorselessly from behind, those big, pale hands cradling the dainty points of her hipbones, coming around to cradle her swollen belly, where new life flutters in her with every beat of her heart. It would be almost more than she could take, to be plundered with broadsword-calloused fingers and that gloriously thick cock that Ser Jorah keeps tucked away from sight. How many Westerosi girls had moaned around his girth, had felt themselves near to split in half on his length – and here he is, bare and massive and with more hair than she’s ever seen on a man, hard and unsatisfied, pleasuring his queen with his lips and his tongue, instead of ploughing into her.

It’s almost like prayer. It’s almost like worship. Daenerys feels her cunt tighten at the thought, like an involuntary convulsion in her flesh, and wants Ser Jorah inside her more than she has ever wanted anything in the world.

(She has forgotten Irri’s presence again. Had she remembered it, she might have been more circumspect with her language. For all Irri and Doreah are her handmaids, they are part of Drogo’s horde, and answer to him above all.)

Daenerys sinks to the pile of furs beneath her feet, stretching out on the pallet beneath, feeling the luxury of that stretch in every fibre of her body. Ser Jorah is still kneeling, frozen; his lovely long cock looks hard enough to hammer nails. Dany grazes her hand along it lightly, removing her hand at once when the knight pushes his hips into it. “Fuck me,” Daenerys says; she does not beg for it so much as she orders it, and relishes Ser Jorah’s shocked little gasp, like he’d expected her to be above such language. “Fuck me like I am your lady.”

Ser Jorah groans, his hips snapping forward as if trying to fuck the air. “ _Khaleesi_ ,” he says, his voice wrecked, and he squeezes the base of his shaft brutally hard, as though trying to stave off release. “I have already gone too far.” Yet his free hand is already wandering back between her legs, pinching at that little bud as if coaxing it to rise even harder. Daenerys rubs herself against it, shamefully; her heart has not settled but is thumping even faster.

“Do not crush my child,” she warns him imperiously, and Ser Jorah nods; other men she might have accused of falsehood, but she doubts he has a single deceitful bone in his whole body. He lowers himself down beside her, resting his weight on his bent elbow; Daenerys tilts her body towards him, looks at his weathered face through her lashes.

“Put it in me, ser,” she tells him, past pretty words or artful temptations.  Ser Jorah closes his eyes, his cock pulsing in hand, Daenerys can see it throbbing. “Give it to me, I want it, I want…” The knight slams himself into her and Daenerys loses her words; it is an ache of the most delicious kind and a rawness as well; she has never had anyone so big inside her before. With no trouble at all he has her on her back, his thrusts ruthless as though punishing Daenerys for teasing him, and she cannot see over her belly to where her cunt is speared by his cock but Ser Jorah must, he must, because he can’t seem to look away.

“My queen,” he says, apparently tested beyond what his measure can endure. “My lady, my queen, oh, my lady.” He still has a hand between her legs; his thumb is rolling frantic circles against her skin, and Daenerys is dripping, wet beyond anything she has felt before, Ser Jorah’s cock soaked with her and more gathering in the curve of her arse and flowing sticky down her thighs.

“I’m your lady,” she says, or maybe she just thinks it. “I’m your lady, you belong to me, Ser, you are _mine_ –” Daenerys comes on that thought, on a particularly accurate roll of Ser Jorah’s thumb over her bud and the unyielding length of him inside her, and all it is tangled up with; the thought of home, the thought of a crown, adoration and worship and a ragged, obedient bear beside her, to do with as she pleased.

She spasms, and draws the knight in ever tighter; quite by accident Daenerys grabs his arse, her nails biting deep into the muscled flesh. To her surprise, the ser moans in response, and Daenerys is filled with hot fluid only a moment later, Ser Jorah satisfying himself in her in fast, uneven jerks that eventually slow to nothing.

He is true to his word. He has held himself up over her, often with only one heavily muscled arm, hand splayed on the floor to keep himself from crushing the swell of her belly and the child within. Ser Jorah keeps his word, Dany thinks to herself dreamily, wrung out like a damp rug, and more than halfway towards drifting into a light doze, warm and satisfied, the knight’s softening cock still inside her. True to his word, and with other, _hidden_ talents, as well as a penchant for saving her life.

She’ll keep him close, she thinks, when she sits the Iron Throne.


End file.
